A Mad & Faithful Telling

A professorial classical violinist. A sousaphone player from a Civil War recreation band. A punk-turned-mariachi-enthusiast drummer raised by polka musicians. A Gypsy-descendant singer. So naturally, they were up for a Grammy.

DeVotchKa's career bio is so unlikely that we pitiable reviewers usually have to indulge our inner allusion-making spazzes to give the impression that we're not just recasting the interesting facts from the band's press releases as zingers. I, for one, was going to utter something like, "This band will be perfect to replace Jose Feliciano in the Celebrity Room scene when Guy Maddin remakes Fargo, setting it at the turn of an imaginary century." See, right there, you get the exoticism, the uncouthness, the kitschy passion (or earnest camp?), the hint of menace, and the nostalgia so nonspecific that it seems forward-looking. Woodchipper-bound criminal Carl Showalter even (mis)references the work from which DeVotchKa's name derives, A Clockwork Orange, during that segment, when he tells his prostitute date he's only in town "for a little of the old in-and-out." Seriously, I can't compete: A professorial classical violinist. A sousaphone player from a Civil War recreation band. A punk-turned-mariachi-enthusiast drummer raised by polka musicians. A Gypsy-descendant singer more multi-instrumentalist than the other three band members that I just reductively identified according to their "main" pieces of equipment. DeVotchKa invented the Diablo Cody arc, as they've gone from accompanying burlesque/fetish shows to getting a Grammy nod, despite being unsigned at the time. Sire reportedly couldn't have them because parent company Warner thought them "unmarketable"-- and yet they just no-thanxed an offer from McDonald's to feature their music in the ubiquitous carcass-merchant's, um, marketing.

An odd byproduct of the band's matriculation to Anti- Records is realizing that one of their new labelmates already "did" their blend of oompah/Morricone/lounge/Latin/etc textures, though with an entirely different vocal approach: the arrangements on Tom Waits' late 1980s and early 90s Island work could be just as baroque. Nick Urata's croon, however, is, whew, like Caetano Veloso had a declamatory baby with each of the Traveling Wilburys. His intensity and, fuck it, beauty is probably what keeps the music's globe-groping cleverness from coming off as sorta quirque-du-soleil. I mean, Urata can sell impresario, lothario, and tragic romantic hero within a single track.

Plus, the balanced, stately-but-dreamy production is pristine-- jams with urgent pulses á la the National/Constantines somehow feel nimble. The band adopts modes from several cultures' wedding- and-funeral traditions, yet never sounds simply ritualistic. Again, once Urata opens his trap, the proceedings immediately feel more the Cure than curated. But something mysteriously blocks this very good record from being great. I wanted it to inspire obsession, I wanted it to break my heart, I wanted its graceful fusion to borrow so freely from so many musical worlds that it achieved worldlessness.

Maybe DeVotchKa's vibe is difficult to withstand for the duration of a long player. "Head Honcho", included here, is a revisitation of a song from the release on which they coined the term for their style: Supermelodrama. Stretching its sweetness out further than an EP can result in a new form of aesthetic torture: syrupboarding. (The two instrumentals kind of acknowledge that the listener might need a boutiquey break from how Urata's epic tremble-slur has the potential to make someone so manic that they'd practice ocular aversion to keep from believing that whoever's in their sightline is "the one.") And the standard relationship-disillusionment lyrics are lacking. You get a (true, reckon) cliché about the winner of the rat race still being a rat, and bits such as "You can bury it deep inside but you can never hide." Worse, half of the songs hit such impressive peaks that the rest seem slight by comparison. But oh, those peaks-- buy this disc for "Along the Way", for "Undone", or just for the spooky dip of "New World"'s eww/oohs. That these are the album's ballads might be testimony that what we have here is a group heartily willing to pen raucous romps for clubs and festivals while secretly wishing to go quiet.